


Wednesday, Five After Seven

by Siria



Category: Boa vs. Python (2004), Thoughtcrimes
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-29
Updated: 2008-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:25:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lock in the front door of Brendan's small, fifth floor walk-up always sticks. It needs to be oiled—or better, the warped wood needs to be replaced—but he never has the time, and when he shoves at it with his shoulder, swearing viciously under his breath, it gives way all of a sudden and he stumbles forward, tripping over his own feet with the force of his own momentum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesday, Five After Seven

The lock in the front door of Brendan's small, fifth floor walk-up always sticks. It needs to be oiled—or better, the warped wood needs to be replaced—but he never has the time, and when he shoves at it with his shoulder, swearing viciously under his breath, it gives way all of a sudden and he stumbles forward, tripping over his own feet with the force of his own momentum.

Brendan rights himself and gives a little growl of frustration. He tugs off his big, heavy coat and tosses it over one of the kitchen chairs, kicks his shoes off to land somewhere beneath the kitchen table. He yanks open the door of the fridge and peers inside. "There's no beer left," he announces to the room at large.

There's no beer left, his socks have holes in the toes, and there's a rip in the knees of his trousers from where he'd been the muscle to Freya's crazy mind powers and tackled today's psychopath to the ground. There's mustard on his skewed tie and wasabi sauce splashed on his shirt, and a for some reason, the office first-aid box had only been able to offer up a Powerpuff Girls bandaid to cover the scrape over his left eyebrow.

Brendan is not a fan of Wednesdays.

He says this out loud, resting his aching head against the cool enamel of the now-closed fridge. From the couch in the living room, he hears Emmett say, "You said you didn't like Tuesdays, too. Or Mondays."

"Don't like them either," Brendan says, knowing full well that he sounds like a petulant nine-year-old, but not really caring. He's been working that case for three weeks, been frustrated at every turn and been yelled at for bringing it to a close. It's time to break out the big guns: he pours himself a glass of just-expensive-enough scotch, and phones in an order for the kind of disgustingly good Chinese food that Freya would only regard with disapproval. Hanging up the phone, he kicks off his ruined trousers and his damp socks, dumps them in the trash and pads over to the couch. He nudges at Emmett's hairy shins until he moves up and makes room for Brendan, lets him sprawl out on cushions that hold the welcome warmth of someone who'd been waiting for him to come home.

He knocks back his drink in two long swallows that make his throat burn pleasantly with it, then drops his head back against the couch and closes his eyes. He breathes out, then feels familiar, blunt fingers coming up to scratch at his scalp.

"Wanna talk about it?" Emmett's voice is neutral, non-committal, as if Brendan's day and the latest issue of the _African Journal of Herpetology_ are of equal interest to him.

"Nope," Brendan says, but he pushes up into Emmett's touch, and lets five warm fingertips run soothing circles against his skin. His skin prickles with heat, his spine relaxes, and it makes him feel like this could be the best of all days: not just a drizzling Wednesday where another one almost got away, and Brendan wasn't quick enough, wasn't smart enough, to stop people from getting hurt.

They stay like that until the takeout food arrives. Brendan heaves himself up and goes to the door; grunts at the delivery guy, and gives him an extra large tip because he knows he's being an asshole; grunts while he's eating, and when Emmett arches an eyebrow at him for stealing more than his fair share of prawn crackers.

When his belly is suitably full of General Tso's chicken and egg-fried rice, and the corner of his mouth has been licked clean by the tip of a careful, pink tongue, Brendan stretches out on the couch next to Emmett. He settles himself down with a sigh, slings an arm over Emmett's belly and rests his face against the pale, soft curve of his neck. Emmett takes the hint, and foregoes further reading on the effect of anthropogenic habitat modification on pythons for the time being. He drops the journal onto the floor, and turns himself to the task of stroking Brendan's side, over and over, long strokes with a big, broad palm that make Brendan's muscles shiver before they relax.

"You get the bad guy?" Emmett says eventually, when the sun is starting to set outside the window, turning the sky to a pale and evening gold.

"Yeah," Brendan sighs, and then nips at Emmett's throat, because really, he _doesn't_ want to talk about it. He remembers it too well for speech: each particular movement of his body as he'd leaped from the staircase, the cool grey metal of the bastard's gun in his hand as Brendan had wrenched it's aim down and away from Freya.

"Good," Emmett says, and kisses his temple, cups the nape of Brendan's neck before sliding down to kiss his mouth with an ease born of long familiarity, a care born of something that makes Brendan shake against his hands. "Brendan," he breathes, and "good," and when his hands push up under Brendan's t-shirt, rubbing the hair on Brendan's belly the wrong way, making him moan, Emmett smiles and says, "Tomorrow, it'll be Thursday."


End file.
